


like an intricate dash of stars

by SUNSETDAISY



Category: The Last Hours Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, CHOI SPOILERS, First Kiss, M/M, judith really needs to learn how to write a better ending, rewriting of chpater 21 but in alastair's perspective, she really--, thanks to my bestie for beta reading all the time ;-;, this is so fun, wrote this for myself to indulge in thomastair but here :D
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-19 00:09:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29866182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SUNSETDAISY/pseuds/SUNSETDAISY
Summary: “I’ve been trying to hate you,” Thomas answered quietly, with finality. “For what you did to Matthew. You richly deserve to be hated for what you have done.”For Matthew? An unmistakable emotion twisted within Alastair, as he watched Thomas with a glimmer. “It wasn’t just his mother I slandered. It was your parents, too. You know it. So you don’t have to -- to act all high-minded about this. Stop pretending you are only upset on behalf of Matthew. Hate me on your own behalf, Thomas.”// or: a rewritten version of chapter 21 in alastair's pov
Relationships: Alastair Carstairs/Thomas Lightwood
Comments: 12
Kudos: 92





	like an intricate dash of stars

**Author's Note:**

> HI BESTIES
> 
> ive been dying since march 1st after reading choi in one day (i know, stupid) i suffered because of thomastair ever since that day and decided that i would pretend that this was where the thomastair relationship stopped at <3 PLEASE don't read if you haven't read choi yet!! i don't want to spoil it for you guys!
> 
> ALL THE DIALOGUE, THE CHARACTERS, THE SETTING BELONG TO CASSANDRA CLARE;; I MERELY WROTE THIS IN ANOTHER PERSON'S POINT OF VIEW, BUT EVERYTHING ELSE IS THE SAME
> 
> anyways enjoy it!

It was truly strange, Alastair decided. Being locked up, kept in the Institute Sanctuary with a certain someone; it was enough for one to go insane. There was a platter of food that Bridget had brought up — most likely out of pity for Thomas, and towards Alastair, she had darted a look of disgust and dislike. It was what he had expected. Choosing to ignore the awkward tension in the air, Alastair went over to one of the beds provided and settled upon it, propping himself up by a few of the pillows. It was built of a pile of blankets, soft enough for Alastair to lean and disappear within the mountains of plush. He pulled out his book, Machiavelli’s  _ The Prince,  _ from his pocket and promptly opened it to its bookmark. Doing so, he could avoid talking, even looking at Thomas, so long as he looked as if he was busy indulging in the book. 

At the corner of his peripheral vision, he could see Thomas shift on the bed, hands and posture awkward. There was an expression of confusion, features twisted beautifully, as he turned towards the platter of food. He then raised his eyes and looked directly at Alastair in the corner, his gaze soft and pleading. What did he want that Alastair wouldn’t give? Alastair felt himself turn away, unable to bear the sight of him. Not when Thomas looked at him like he was worth something. They would simply sit together for a few hours and wait until Charlotte came back. 

What felt like hours passed and Alastair was still reading, purposefully skimming over each page twice to drag out the time. Thomas hadn’t moved either, and Alastair took that note with great surprise. Then again, Thomas was not like the other Merry Thieves. He was kind, generous, and he was everything Alastair wanted and didn’t deserve. 

Alastair moved his eyes back to the book and waited. Only a few minutes later, Thomas stood, wandered around for a few steps and knocked over a candelabra with a flourish. The brass knocked against the wood of the table and Alastair winced at the sudden clamour. Still, Alastair didn’t move. 

Thomas fumbled around for a few minutes before stopping completely. He could feel Thomas’s stare on him, steady and calculating while he ignored him. Alastair wondered whether it was time to sleep, but neither of them would be able to know the time. They could have been awake at two in the morning and would fall asleep before the sun. Yet the mere notion of spending time together made Alastair feel tense. 

Abruptly, Thomas moved behind Alastair and he could no longer hear anything until Thomas knocked on the door. He heard the sound of the doorknob jingle, the slight creak of the floor below Thomas and the rough shove against the door. Alastair couldn’t stand it anymore. Thomas was getting nowhere with his attempts to open the door, and he wasn’t catching Alastair’s attention either.

“A little menacing that the Sanctuary bolts shut from the outside, isn’t it? I never thought about it much before.” Alastair said lightly, watching Thomas flinch at the voice. He turned around to look at Alastair, who shrugged his jacket off, rumpling his shirt during the act. 

“I, er, suppose one might have to keep an unexpectedly dangerous Downworlder out, or something,” Thomas replied hesitantly. His hazel eyes glimmered under the soft light drifting from the lamp. 

“Maybe,” Alastair shrugged again. “On the other hand, it does give the Institute a makeshift prison.” He kept his eyes on the book once again as Thomas moved closer to him. He was going to stare at the page until it burned under his eyes. He was not going to look at Thomas, who seemed to be patiently waiting for another word from Alastair. His gaze was drilling, and the pressure was building violently in Alastair’s chest.  _ Thomas hated him. _ Alastair had to remind himself of that.

“Why have you been following me around?” Thomas demanded.

There it was. Alastair was preparing to answer that question for the entire night. He felt his breath hitch, and squeezed his eyes shut. He could not tell Thomas that he was worried about him, that he didn’t want to see Thomas lying with the victims, and that he, guiltily, felt so thankful that it was not Thomas but Lilian Highsmith. “Someone had to,” He replied.

“What on earth does that mean?” Thomas asked, his voice holding the slightest bit of uncertainty.

“Don’t answer the questions you don’t want the answer to, Lightwood,” Alastair said, lifting his chin haughtily.

There was a short pause, and Alastair felt himself tense all over. Thomas, instead, sat beside Alastair with a thump on the mattress. He looked up at him with shock. 

“I do not want the answer,” Thomas said slowly. “And I will not get up until you tell it to me.”

Alastair felt a spark in his stomach, as if someone had struck a match. There was something  _ awfully  _ attractive about Thomas demanding words from Alastair. Slowly and decidedly, Alastair let his features remain blank. He set his book down, his pulse beating quicker than normal. He could feel Thomas’s stare again. “I knew you were taking extra patrols,” Alastair said carefully. “And more than that – going out by yourself with a murderer on the loose. You were going to get yourself killed. You’re meant to take someone with you.”

“No, thank you. All these people going out in pairs, announcing themselves every time they speak, unable to make a move without consulting each other – they might as well ring a bell to let the killer know they’re coming. And meanwhile, if you’re not on the schedule, you’re supposed to just sit around on your arse doing nothing. We’ll never catch the murderer if we avoid being out on the streets. That’s where the murderer is.”

Thomas looked so defiant and certain, Alastair felt sparks of amusement run through him. “Never before have I heard such a concise statement of the ludicrous philosophy with which you and your school friends go through the world, running toward danger,” Alastiar raised his arms to lift his shirt free from his trousers before continuing. He ignored the look Thomas had sent to him. “But that’s not why you were doing what you were doing,” Alastair continued. “There’s a little truth to what you just said, but not the heart of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“You couldn’t save your sister. So you want to save other people. You want revenge, even if this isn’t the same evil that took Barbara -- it’s still evil, isn’t it?” Alastair turned to stare at Thomas, who looked flushed under his gaze. There was the slightest tremble on Thomas’s hand. “You want to behave recklessly, and you don’t want your reckless behavior to compromise a patrol partner’s safety. So you went alone.”

The look Thomas sent him only confirmed Alastair’s words. It was full over wonder and astonishment, as if he didn’t expect Alastair to read him like a book 

“Well, I don’t believe you really think that we’re stupid,” Thomas said, “Or that we willingly court danger for danger’s sake. If you believed that, you would do more to stop Cordelia spending time with us.” 

Alastair scoffed, not being able to believe Thomas’s words. It was not the problem of the Merry Thieves with Cordelia. He never had a problem with it. Against Matthew Fairchild, he may have had, but there was someone kind enough to look out for her. 

“My point,” Thomas went on with an edge to his voice. Alastair narrowed his eyes at him. “is that I don’t think you believe the rude things you say. And I don’t understand why you say them. It doesn’t make any sense. It’s as if you want to drive everyone away. Why were you so awful to us in school? We never did anything to you.”

It was because Thomas and his school friends had done nothing to him, and they had done nothing wrong at all, excluding Christopher Lightwood’s invention failures. He could not say it and Thomas would not understand. Alastair remained silent, gathering his courage to speak again. “I was awful to you…,” he said at last. “Because I could be.”

“Anyone can be a bastard if they want to be,” said Thomas. “You had no reason to do it. Your family are friends with the Herondales. You could at least have been kinder to James.”

“When I got to school,” Alastair said, pushing down his fears. There was no way for him and Thomas to talk properly if Alastair could not explain to him his reasons. “Loose talk about my father had preceded me. Everyone knew he was a failure, and some of the older students decided I was an easy target. They...let’s just say that by the end of the first week, I had been made to understand my place in the hierarchy, and I had the bruises to remind me should I ever forget.” 

Twisting his hands together, Alastair watched Thomas carefully to look for his reactions of disgust towards him. Alastair continued before he could receive Thomas’s disappointment in him. “After about a year of being knocked around, I realized I could either become one of the bullies or suffer for the rest of my school days. I felt no loyalty to my father, no need to defend him, so that was never a problem. I wasn’t very big -- well, you know what that’s like.” Alastair eyed Thomas for a moment, his thoughts speculative. He watched Thomas as he shrank in embarrassment, with darting eyes around the room. He looked as if he wanted to melt and camouflage with the mattress, uncomfortable with his own size. “What I did have was a savage tongue and a quick wit. Augustus Pounceby and the others would collapse laughing when I cut some poor younger student down to size. I never got my hands bloody, never hit anyone, but it didn’t matter, did it? Soon enough the bully-boys they’d ever hated me. I was one of them.”

“And how did that turn out for you?” Thomas’s voice was hard. 

Alastair looked at him matter-of-factly, ignoring the faint shiver down his spine. “Well, one of us has a close-knit group of friends, and the other has no friends at all. So you tell me.” 

“You have friends,” Thomas said. Alastair shoved his scoff down with disbelief and watched the realization dawn in Thomas’s eyes. He  _ had  _ no friends. Surely Thomas would have noticed by now. 

“Then you lot arrived, a bunch of boys from famous families, too well brought up to understand at first what went on far from home. Expecting the world would embrace you. That you would be treated well. As I never had been.” Alastair took a shaky breath and dropped his eyes away from Thomas, staring everywhere except at his face. “I suppose I hated you because you were happy. Because you had each other -- friends you could like and admire -- and I had nothing like that. You had parents who loved each other. But none of that excuses the way I behaved. And I do not expect to be forgiven.”

Silence drifted upon them as Alastair stopped speaking, waiting to hear Thomas’s reply. “I’ve been trying to hate you,” Thomas answered quietly, with finality. “For what you did to Matthew. You richly deserve to be hated for what you have done.”

For Matthew? An unmistakable emotion twisted within Alastair, as he watched Thomas with a glimmer. “It wasn’t just his mother I slandered. It was your parents, too. You know it. So you don’t have to -- to act all high-minded about this. Stop pretending you are only upset on behalf of Matthew. Hate me on your own behalf, Thomas.” 

“No,” Thomas said. He stood, arms crossed around his chest, shooting a pointed look in Alastair’s direction. Alastair blinked, his whole body stiff, as if a delicate cold path of fingers ran down his back. He couldn’t understand. Alastair had tarnished his father, Gideon Lightwood’s reputation in front of Matthew, yet Thomas was not angry with him? Alastair was quite sure that it was what he would have expected to receive. 

“The reason I cannot hate you is because – because of those days we spent in Paris together,” Thomas said hesitantly. He could feel Thomas watching him as his eyes widened. “You were kind to me when I was very alone, and I am grateful. It was the first time I realized you could be kind.”

Alastair did not know what to say or how to reply. All he could do was to look at Thomas’s hopeful face, the strands of shimmering brown hair and the glint in his hazel eyes. Brown was such a lovely colour, Alastair decided. It was all shades of caramel, wood, gold, and aged mahogany, and in the way that Alastair had never noticed before. “It was my favourite memory of Paris as well,” Alastair said.

“You don’t have to say that. I know you were there with Charles.” 

_ Charles?  _ Alastair was confused. “Charles Fairchild? What about him?”

“Wouldn’t  _ that  _ be your best memory of Paris?”

“Exactly what are you suggesting?” 

“I’m not suggesting anything,” said Thomas. “I’ve seen the way you look at Charles, the way he looks at you. I’m not an idiot, Alastair, and I’m asking…” Alastair watched as Thomas shook his head with a sigh. “I suppose I’m asking if you’re like me.” 

_ Oh by the Angel.  _ Alastair’s mind whirled as he reached a hand out on the bed to brace himself. So that was what Thomas was implying. “Thomas Lightwood,” Alastair said steadily. “I am nothing like you.”

There again, that pause in between tension. Alastair stared at the point right above Thomas while Thomas looked straight at him. 

“I am nothing like you, Thomas,” Alastair continued, “because you are one of the better people I have ever known. You have a kind nature and a heart like some knight out of a legend. Brave and proud and true and strong. All of it.” Alastair smiled bitterly. “And all the time you have known me, I have been a terrible person. So, you see. We are nothing at all alike.” 

Thomas looked back up at him, emotions rushing through his eyes like waves of water pushing past rocks. There was a shine in his eyes, the kind that Alastair couldn’t stand, because it made his heart hurt. “I’m not–” Thomas bit off the words, as if he couldn’t stop himself. “That’s not what I meant.” 

“I know what you meant.” Alastair said back, leaving the words to hang in the air. Neither of them spoke for a full minute. “How did you know about Charles?” Alastair added gently. 

“You wouldn’t tell me what you were doing in Paris,” said Thomas. “But you mentioned Charles, over and over again, like you got pleasure just out of saying his name. And when you came to London this summer, I saw the way you looked at him. I know what it is to have to hide the - the signs of affection.”

“Then I imagine you may have noticed I don’t look at Charles that way anymore.” 

“I suppose I did,” Thomas mused. “though for the past four months, I’ve been trying not to look at  _ you.  _ I told myself I hated you. But I could never really make myself. When Elias died, all I could think about was you. What you must be feeling.”

Alastair winced, guilt creeping into his heart. “I insulted your father and blackened his name. You were under no obligation to care about mine.” Kind, generous Thomas. In no way could Alastair  _ ever  _ deserve him. The mere thought of Thomas’s reaction, the morning of his father’s murder, made Alastair feel sharp pains in his chest. He felt like crying, the pressure in his chest becoming more and more unbearable. 

“I know, but sometimes I think that it is much harder to lose someone who we are on bad terms with than it is to lose someone with whom all is well.”

“Bloody hell, Thomas. You should hate me, not be thinking about what I must be feeling--” Alastair could feel the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, swiping at them hastily and hoping that Thomas had not noticed them. “And the worst of it is, you’re right, of course. You always understood other people so well. I think I partly hated you for it, for being so kind. I thought, ‘He must have so much, to be able to be so generous.’ And I thought that I had nothing. It never occurred to me that you secrets too.”

“You were always my secret,” said Thomas softly. He was staring at Alastair with a mixture of sadness, hope, and an emotion stronger than all of it combined. 

“Does no one know?” said Alastair. “That you – like men? How long have you known?” 

“Since after I came to school, I think,” Thomas said with a low voice. He ducked his head down. “I knew what caught my eye, quickened my pulse, and it was never a girl.”

“And you never told anyone?” 

Thomas hesitated. “I could have told my friends that I liked men. They would have understood. But I couldn’t have told them how I felt about  _ you _ .”

“So you did feel something for me. I thought--” Alastair broke off, turning away and shaking his head in disbelief. As good and as kind as Thomas was, there was never a moment where Alastair wouldn’t believe him. “I didn’t  _ see  _ you -- you were this boy, following me around at school, and then I met you in Paris and you’d grown up and turned into Michelangelo’s  _ David.  _ I thought you were beautiful. But I was still caught up with Charles--just another thing I’ve wasted. Your regard for me. I wasted my time and my affections on Charles. I wasted my chance with you.”

Perhaps it was the words that Alastair had said, but Thomas was looking at him as if he were unreal, as if he were an Angel sent by Raziel, as if he was the most beautiful person in the world. His cheeks were flushed and his shoulders lifted, moving towards Alastair until they were merely a foot away from each other. He knelt on the floor sides Alastair so that he was staring up at Alastair. 

“Maybe not,” Thomas said. “About me, I mean.”

Alastair blinked in confusion, with the slightest hints of hope. “Speak sense, Lightwood,” he said testily. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean this,” Thomas said, and leaned in to kiss Alastair lightly on the mouth. Alastair stared at him in shock, his lips still tingling with the after-effects. He was dazed, completely taken by how much he felt just from a simple touch of the lips. It was never like this with Charles. Thomas drew back slowly, and before he could step away from Alastair, Alastair caught hold of the front of Thomas’ shirt. He slid onto his knees so that they could face each other; with Thomas kneeling back, their heads at the same level. 

“Thomas--” Alastair began, his voice uneven and faint. He curled his fingers around the shirt tighter and pulled Thomas closer before releasing him. He turned away silently. He could not. He would not do this to Thomas. He would rather be alone and see Thomas happy than drag him along into his mess.

“Just imagine,” Thomas said, interrupting Alastair’s train of thoughts. “What if we’d never gone to the Academy together? What if none of those things had happened, and Paris was the first time we’d met? And this was the second?”

Alastair kept his silence and said nothing. Up close, he could see the faint etches of desperation on Thomas’s face, the flecks of light in his eyes, like an intricate dash of stars. Looking at him, Alastair realized that he couldn’t step away from Thomas. He could not tear himself away from him, shut him out, and deny that there was anything between them. Alastair lifted a corner of his mouth in a slight smile at Thomas, watching the relief fill his eyes. It was astonishing to see how much Alastair could affect him. “Damn you, Thomas,” he said, and he could hear resignation in his voice, mixed with longing and something more intense, more sweet. Then, he was pulling Thomas in.

Their bodies touched, and Alastair could feel the soft fabric slipping through his fingers and the sweet press of Thomas against him. Tugging him in even closer than before, Alastair kissed him. He closed his eyes as a rush of feelings threatened to overwhelm him and take control. He couldn’t bear the sensation, the softness of his mouth, the delicate touch from Thomas’s fingers as they reached his waist and rested there. Alastair touched his mouth gently once again before exploring Thomas’s mouth, with more strength and intensity than before. It was like falling – falling hard towards the ground. The heat and the sheer pressure made Alastair feel weak. 

He traced up a path to Thomas’s shoulders, across his chest, his hands fluttering with the urge to touch him everywhere and hold him close. Pulling away only to take a breath of air, Alastair leaned in again, relishing in the feel of Thomas’s hair between his fingers as he kissed down the arch of Alastair’s throat. He heard himself let out a low, keening sound, and tightened his grip on Thomas, while Thomas reacted against him. He had never imagined it to be like this. To kiss Thomas like he was the air Alastair needed to breathe, like he was the rope that anchored him to the world. Nothing like the soft whimpers that Thomas made when Alastair bit on his lower lip as his hands roamed over all the places he’d been craving to touch for months. And in the moment, Alastair would have forgotten everything he had been worrying about, completely enraptured by the warmth of Thomas in his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> !!!!!!!  
> i miss thomastair
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/SUNSETDAlSY)


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